Those Nights
by Rmorris27
Summary: Some Nights sequel. After Sherlock's return life in 221B was back to being as normal as can be, but when suspicious packages start arriving fir Rebecca, she soon realises Moriarty's web was bigger than they thought. Case/Johnlock/Original character.
1. Chapter 1

So, I re-wrote this entire story. I'm sorry I just lost track of where I was going with it and so wrote out a new story line. I also changed the writing style so that it's in Rebecca's POV. I've just finished reading "The Progress of Sherlock Holmes" and thought that the style of writing fit well with the kind of analytical brain he has and so I tried it out on Rebecca and loved it.

I'll delete all old comments so that the whole story is new- don't take offence if I delete yours it just wouldn't fit with the story now if I kept it.

So, enough rambling- Here you go,

"Those Nights"- Chapter One.

* * *

Breathe. In. Out.

Stare up at the roof of the bedroom. Outside a police car passes, a few drunken heels clicked along the pavements. I'm lying on my back, he shifts in his sleep- slides an arm across my ribs and pulls me towards him. I resist. Hold my ground until he turns over again.

His breathing is steady indicating peaceful sleep. I cannot sleep. I never can.

Stand, pull on underwear and grab dress from floor. Door creaks slightly as I open it, turn to make sure I haven't woken him. I haven't.

Pick up shoes from where they sit to the right of the door. Get dressed slowly, feeling the strong need for coffee and cigarettes now that I've gotten up. Cigarette lit, take deep, satisfying draw as I open the door and leave without looking back.

There was no need to look back- he was only of use to me for the night, now he's just a man in a bed. Plus, people tend to get awfully sentimental after physical contact of that nature, not all but some. Some will wake to the sound of your leaving, rub their eyes and ask where you're going, say "come back to bed". You turn then, look at them, apparently I'm meant to feel something- a warmth in my chest if the books and songs are correct- at them wanting me to stay, but I don't. I never feel anything towards anyone, something that countless psychologists tell me is a disorder, something classed as abnormal, but I've always been this way. People are to be used in order to get things: information, sex, drugs.

By age six I'd been labelled 'sociopath' by four leading psychologists, the same ones that had given Sherlock a matching diagnosis. We didn't fully agree with those people- we felt familial love towards each other after all. Sociopaths- yes, but with the odd exceptions.

It's cold outside- freezing if I'm honest, but I still feel numb. I finish my cigarette and light another.

This has been my tenth danger night this month. I'd thought that they'd gone- what with Sherlock's return and Gladstone's arrival I'd been too busy enjoying things to pay any attention to those dark parts of me...but now.

Now they're everywhere. Every face, every deduction feeds one of them and I've been unprepared. Not ready to fight them off. Not close enough to John or Sherlock to let them help me- to force me to stay in the flat (one occasion they actually barricaded the door, leading me to climb out the window) and talk to me until it had passed. Last night they had left for a case early, around six o'clock, not ten minutes before a sealed package dropped through the front door addressed to me.

Stop. Block those thoughts. Shiver runs through body as I raise a hand and flag down a cab. He pulls over almost instantly. Give address. Ask to turn heating up. He does with a worried look in the rear-view mirror.

An hour later I'm standing at the black door beside the red awning of Speedy's. Raise hand, trace the numbers on the door with fingertips, they gleam slightly as the sun rises above the rooftops. Take a deep breath. They will let me back in (they always will) and then I will have to explain everything to them and pray they forgive me. Behind this door, my 'exceptions' waited. Constriction around heart.

Knocker sounds, a pair of kitten heels clicks on the floorboards. Mrs. Hudson opens the door.

"Oh, sweetheart", she coos, pulling me into the house, closing the door behind me. 221B is calm and quiet other than a set of footsteps that are pacing above my head. Sherlock won't have slept or eaten since I left three days ago. He will have spent his hours pacing, analyzing the notebook and (by the smell) smoking my secret stash of cigarettes. John will have slept more than Sherlock but still very little. He will have tried to help Sherlock, but he knows that Sherlock is unreachable when in this state. Deep breath in, hold for three seconds and climb the stairs. Pacing stops when I reach the first landing. Shuffling of feet. Door opens to show Sherlock (looking very, very bad) and John (also looking rough).

Stand and stare at Sherlock. Cannot move. Cannot speak. I'm so sorry Sher.

He moves so quickly, blurring around the edges as he throws his arms around me. Warmth. Safety. Sigh- _Sherlock_. Hide face in his neck, beside the small freckles, reveling in the complete sense of- of love that over-rides all of my senses. He was, and is, the exception to everything my diagnosis is.

He picks me up, carries me over to the sofa. Arms are raised, sides prodded, pulse and pupil dilation taken by quick, confident fingers. I'm fine apparently.

Pull Sherlock closer to me. He allows me to move him into a comfortable position, lifting his arm and cradling me in the space between his neck and his jaw that had always belonged to me. Arms tighten around me. Heartbeat sure and comforting beneath my ear. Breathe in. Breathe out as a sigh. I never want to move.

The sofa cushion sinks. Smell of tea and cinnamon mixes in with Sherlock's sweet smell. _John_.

Open eyes, untuck head from the safety of Sherlock's neck to look at him. He is tired, not slept for thirty six hours. Two days worth of facial hair. _Oh, John_.

Raise hand. Reach out to him and offer my hand- note scratches and finger shaped bruise marks on wrists, wince at the sight of them. John always hates it when I get hurt. He takes my hand, presses his lips to the knuckles, then the bruises. He lets out a breath against the back of my hand.

There must be some way to comfort him. Must be something I can do to stop hurting them both with my recklessness. My john, and my Sherlock both crumpled because of my mind constantly fighting with itself.

A shift in my mental indexing system.

Move Dr. John Hamish Watson to "Exception" area.

Flex fingers and knot them in Johns. His hands are smaller than Sher's are, fatter and more callous, but just as soft when touching me. Holding me like I'm nothing but glass and tissue, breakable with the tiniest touch.

Squeeze his hands, make him look at me. His eyes, dark, dark blue meet mine. It feels like he can look right into my head- like he can see the horrible things that go on in there and is trying to fight them off. Ever the Soldier, ever loyal.

"I'm sorry" I say, not breaking eye contact. His mouth twitches, becomes thin and slanted to one side. Brows furrow, breath comes out in a huff.

"It's fine love," he reaches out his empty hand and pushes a stray piece of hair from my face, an insignificant touch to anyone else, but casual touches are a luxury to me. People don't touch me, are afraid of me. I scare John too, but he's too brave to run from danger- he needs it. God, how I wish he didn't.

John stands, note that there is a slight tilt to his walk, favoring his good leg. I thought that Sherlock had fixed that. Maybe John held me much closer than I ever thought he did, close enough to trigger his limp (and his nightmares judging by the bags under his eyes). Is there anything that I don't ruin?

He comes back, a tray with three mugs and a tower of dark chocolate digestives balanced in his hands. He sets it down on the coffee table. Hands Sherlock his mug, hands me mine and pushes the biscuits in my direction.

"Eat" he says. Stomach grumbles- how long has it been since I'd eaten? More than two days, maybe four. John nods slightly with his head, directing me to eat. I take one biscuit- Sherlock shifts slightly to allow me to sit, but I stop him before he removes himself entirely- dip it into my tea. Take a bite. Sigh. Savor the sweetness.

I finish a packet of biscuits and three cups of tea before curling back into Sherlock, still holding John's hand. Lips press lightly to my forehead. Arms tighten around me, holding me closer. Warm, happy, safe- Sherlock. I sleep that night on the sofa, neither of them leave me. They stay.

_They stay._


	2. Chapter 2

Stir. Sun breaking through the curtains. Feel arms still around me. A head resting on top of mine. A rough hand still holding me. Sherlock. John.

"Morning" I feel the vibrations from his voice in his chest. He hasn't slept, John still is. Move arm, slide it around his side and pull close. Nowhere in the world can compare to here, hidden in his neck where I can hear him alive and there.

"Morning" I press a kiss to his chest. If I am capable of love- even if only with my exceptions- this is what it feels like. This indescribable thing in my chest that appears when I'm sitting like this. When we work on a case together. Whenever he's near.

The same happens when John comes near too.

Hand rubs my back. Head lifts from on top of mine. Pull back to look at him. Eyes still focused and sharp but fuzzy due to lack of sleep. Stubble, something Sherlock never has, covers his jaw. Raise arm, trace fingertips over it. He stares at me- deducing what has happened in the days that I've been gone. I do not want him to know.

"Are you alright?" he asks. I nod, unsure of my voice. He unknots my fingers from Johns and picks me up. I'm set down again in the bathroom. It's cold without his heat around me. Muscles shiver to conserve heat. Bodies are useless.

The bath is filled with warm soapy water that smells like vanilla.

"I'll sit on the other side of the door" Sherlock says, standing after testing the water. Nod head. Watch as he closes the door almost all the way. Through the frosted glass of the door I can see him crouch down and lean against the doorframe. His silhouette dark and solid.

I undress, leave my clothes in a pile beside the sink. I can still smell the aftershave of the man on my skin. Scrub hard. Remove all traces of him. Skin is red now. Clean. Relax against the back of the bath. Stay there until the water cools.

"I've set clothes at the door. I'm going to wake John", he has a hand pressed against the glass. Press mine against his, "Okay".

I dress then stand and look into the mirror. Wipe away condensation. Stare at face. Make deductions as if it weren't my own face, just a person in the street.

Pale. Full lips, prominent cupids bow. Hazel eyes. Freckles. Dark curled hair, long- just past shoulder blades. A pretty face. One that can get people to do most anything if paired with the mind hidden by the flesh. One that can pull people in with a well rehearsed smile, make them fall in love- make them care- in order to get what I want. I don't know what I would do should I not be aesthetically pleasing- it is a very useful advantage.

I look at the familiar face again- scan the body now.

Very thin- underweight by around ten pounds. Scars visible on forearms- silver and red lines crawling up towards the edge of the t-shirt (black, short sleeved, peplum hem, but loose fitting due to weight). Jeans (dark blue) cover slim, yet lean legs, held up at the waist by a thin black belt. Feet bare- toenails painted the same shade of red as fingernails.

She was tiny, innocent looking, and thin. That was just the physical though. Delve deeper. Take deep breath. Hold.

Smoker. Occasional drug use. Scottish. Sociopathic tendencies. Emotional instability (due to no emotional depth). Possible Antisocial Personality Disorder (highly likely). Depression- mild to severe. Unhealthy relationship with food.

Let out breath and turn away from image. Delete all deductions about said image. Store nothing, erase everything.

I pick up my towels and leave the bathroom- mind clear.

Sherlock waits in the kitchen, another cup of tea sat in my usual space on the table. John, now awake, is making something in a frying pan- smells awful: grease, eggs, bacon, potato, tomato. Ugh. His nutritional choices never fail to make me feel ill.

John turns, smiles that smile thats all warmth and crinkled eyes. Smile involuntarily spreads across my own face, warmth bubbles up in chest. John is definitely an exception.

"Want any?" he asks, nodding his head in the direction of the fizzing concoction in the pan. Nose turns up, head shakes in decline. He shrugs, turns back to his cooking humming to himself. His entire demeanor has changed since I appeared back at 221B. He's relaxed, exceedingly happy that I returned relatively unharmed. Plate in hand, he walks to his chair at the table and sits. There is no trace of a limp.

I feel Sherlock's eyes on me, watching my reaction to John's obliviousness. He clearly didn't even notice his leg was playing up- he did have other things on his mind after all. He was too busy worrying about _me_ to even think of himself. _My, John. _

Break gaze away from John to turn towards Sher. He's smiling his real smile. He's noticed John's over night recovery as well. Smile back. Walk towards him and kiss his cheek. Hug him tightly. He holds me with equal pressure. Walk to John then. Stand behind him and drape arms around his neck, head buried in his shoulder. Knife and fork hit plate. Hands reach up and hold mine. A pair of lips on my cheek.

"Love you" he says.

I know John, I know.

Say, "I love you too".

He exhales, a smile pulling at his face as I stand and take my seat. He resumes his meal, still smiling, eyes crinkled, looking over at me every so often. Thats the first time I've ever said those words to him. I've only ever used that awful phrase when talking to Sherlock, and even then its used sparingly because neither of us need to say it. But John likes words. He likes having the memory of them stored for bad times- for after the nightmares and the nights that Sherlock or I don't come home.

Make mental note: tell John everyday that you love him.

The day passes as most of them do after I come home; the three of us, sitting on the sofa (me in the middle) with Gladstone (now back in 221B after I swore to cut down on the destruction) curled up on my lap. He's been with Mrs. Hudson for a while- more than three months- for his own good. I've missed him. People are an inconvenience, dogs like Gladstone, however, are always an exception. Run hands over his back in time with his breath. Inhale...Exhale. Inhale... Exhale. Stare down at him. He is larger than I remember. His skin looks less wrinkled, yet still too big at the same time.

"I'm glad he's back," John says, reaching out a hand to touch him, his eyes glazed over with affection as he pats the dog he treats as his child. "I missed him eating the curtains" He laughs, looking over at the seams, covered with tiny holes.

"He was teething, a necessary stage in his development" Sherlock says. He adores this little ball of fur just as much as John and I do, but he'd never admit to it.

The light fades gradually. Room bathed in orange, dust motes visible in front of my eyes. Check on others; Gladstone- asleep on my shoulder supported by my arms, John, also fast asleep on my other shoulder, Sherlock, staring at John.

He reluctantly moves his gaze to me.

"He hasn't slept since you left". Guilt. Anger. Self-hatred. How can I do this to someone like him? Sherlock's face turns serious "you can't do that to him again. I won't allow it". He's right- I can't. The scars the Holmes family have left on John are already too many in number. He doesn't need another. Turn and look at John.

In sleep he looks younger, all the lines his life has carved into his face smoothed out, mouth slightly open, breath steady. He's the one thing, the one person that has managed to keep two Holmes children grounded for any length of time. He probably saved our lives- people like Sherlock and I aren't built for long lives. We burn brightly for a while, too brightly, burning up all of our fuel and oxygen until the day we simply burn out completely. But John- John is there, filling up the fuel, adding oxygen to keep us there.

John Watson loves us.

"I won't" I say, words more sincere than any I've ever said before. Sherlock looks slightly startled for a moment before recovering.

Close eyes.

Sleep.

_Sleep._


	3. Chapter 3

Pick up coat from hook on the door and put it on. Check pockets for cigarettes- sixteen left. Gladstone waddles over to me, his lead in his mouth. Smile, bend down and scratch behind his ears.

"Dad'll take you out later Glad". Kiss his head, he kisses me back.

Close door quietly. Stand on Baker Street and light cigarette. Inhale. Sigh as nicotine floods system. Turn left, walk for a half hour- finishing off three more cigarettes in the process- until I arrive outside of the building. I do not want to be here. I don't need these people. But, I'm not doing this for me- I'm doing it for John. For Sherlock. For a life without that awful empty sadness looming every time I get out of bed in the morning- on the odd nights that I sleep- the way that it drains me of everything so that I'm too tired to even move. I'm just so tired.

Finish cigarette, throw away filter. Exhale smoke and walk in.

I hate it instantly. It's clean, painted in colours proven to enhance light capacity and mood. Chairs lined round the wall filled with weeping women and red eyed men either staring at me, or into oblivion. I do not want to become one of these people made superficially happy on medication in order to get through the day. Walk to desk. State name. Told to go right through to office four- Mycroft must have pulled some strings.

I find the office and walk in. An older woman, slightly greying hair, glasses on a chain around her neck turns to smile at me.

"Rebecca I presume?" I nod, who else would it be? I already believe this woman to be an idiot. She motions for me to sit in the chair opposite her, begins mirroring my posture in order to make me feel more at ease with her. She clearly isn't aware that I've read almost every psychology textbook I could get my hands on, I know exactly what techniques she'll try and apply, what questions she'll ask. Dull. Boring. Tedious.

"I'm Doctor Watson," She says, picking up a notebook and pen. Typical that Mycroft would pick a therapist with a name that reminds me of my reasons for being here. Make mental note to phone him later and express annoyance at the whole ordeal.

As predicted she asks the questions, quoting directly from certain books, taking notes -which I read upside down- on my behaviour, posture, expression and word choice.

By the end of my session she has already diagnosed me- quite impressive should I not have already done that.

Moderate depression, sociopathic attitudes (but not full sociopathic personality), trust issues, anti-social personality disorder.

"I am fully aware of your talent, Mycroft informed me before you came here," She puts down her pen. Relaxed posture. Non-professional. Interesting.

"I know that you have already diagnosed yourself and that you are here only to give other piece of mind, but you really should have come sooner". Her face changes; worry, concern, openness.

"I'm perfectly capable of handling all of this on my own".

"I don't doubt that, but I feel as if theres something triggering your recent..." She hesitates, looking for the right word, "bad spell".

Feel my eyes narrow. Feel lips pull back ready to spit out words that could destroy even the most well seasoned therapist. Save the words for later date. Pick up bag. Pull out cigarettes and light one just to annoy her. Smile when it does.

"Same time next week" is all she says before turning back to her notes, waving a dismissive hand in my direction. Eyes narrow more. Blow smoke towards her. Slam door. Ignore receptionist shouting about my smoking. Blow smoke at her too. Run out onto street. Let feet lead-unsure of destination, but I don't care.

I'm still tired.

Flag down cab "Baker Street". Watch as London passes outside of the window. That Therapist is an idiot. I don't need her, I'm there for the sole purpose of giving John some piece of mind. After telling him about the appointment he slept better, limp completely gone. Sherlock held the idea of therapy in as high a regard as I did, but we both want John to be happy. For the first time in our lives we have someone- other than each other- to put before everything. And John does deserve better.

Pay cabbie. Rummage for keys in bag.

Inside the flat is warm, the smell of Baker Street filling my lungs- sweet, cinnamon, vanilla, chemicals, baking.

"How'd the meeting go dear?" Mrs Hudson asks, a look of genuine concern on her face. Should I tell her that I stormed out blowing smoke at people? No- she's never really approved of tantrums. Say "fine" with a smile before heading upstairs. While that smile may work on Mrs H, Sherlock and John notice somethings wrong the second I step in the door.

John is on the floor in the living room playing tug-of-war with Gladstone giggling like a maniac. Sherlock is in his chair, violin in hand, plucking out small sections of melodies with a slight smile on his face. They turn to look at me- john's brows furrow and he straightens, getting ready to interrogate me no doubt, while Sherlock bursts into hysterical giggles. Sherlock's reaction makes me laugh too.

"You two are doing that thing again" says John, standing up and crossing his arms. We laugh harder.

John huffs slightly, "no, c'mon, what?!". Genuine annoyance. Posture suggests feelings of being left out. Regain some composure. Sherlock speaks first, the odd giggle still escaping between words.

"She allowed a diagnosis to be given- one that she had already validated months ago- before blowing cigarette smoke in both the therapist and the receptionists faces before storming out". Sherlock laughs again, I smile, John looks ready to kill me.

"You WHAT?!" Back straightens, face turns slightly red, leans forward and raises hand, finger pointed in my direction. Accept that I probably deserve this so stand and take Johns lecture. I zone out as he talks, brought back to reality by the sound of Gladstone barking at him. The puppy, now much bigger than he was, was standing between John and I, protecting me. Lean down and pick him up. Ruffle ears, kiss head, walk towards my chair and sit down. Sherlock stands and places an arm around John's waist. He's still heaving breaths after his outburst, but calms the second that Sherlock touches him. He leans in and whispers something in John's ear. They laugh, John shakes his head and apologizes to me. I accept, closing my eyes as he touches my head and goes to make tea. Behind his back Sherlock looks at me, shakes his head smiling his big smile and gives me a nod- one that means "well played". I copy the action and close my eyes.

It's warm in here, the afternoon sun shining through the curtains making the dust motes shimmer in the air. I can hear John and Sherlock laughing in the kitchen- stealing kisses as John tries to make tea. I can hear Gladstone's rhythmic breathing and feel the weight of him on my lap. Theres nothing here that should make me unhappy- if anything it should make me the happiest I've been in years- but that feeing is still there, clawing at my insides, hollowing me out so that I'm just a shell. My brain is suffering too, I can't concentrate on things, forget things that I never would have before, take absolutely no joy in deductions or experiments like I used to.

Maybe that Idiotic doctor is worth a try. I'm just so tired of feeling like this. I don't know how much more I can take.

Wake to John handing me a cup. Take it and sip- perfect cup of tea. He takes advantage of the fact that I always accept tea but using extra sugar and whole milk, something about increasing my calories or something. He smiles at me, all crinkled eyes and honest emotion and something twinges in my chest.

"John and I are going out tonight," Sherlock says, picking up his violin and waltzing towards the window. Slight panic.

I don't want to be alone.

If I'm alone I'll go up to my room and look into the envelope again.

Handwritten address;

Miss Rebecca Holmes,

221B Baker Street

London.

Inside it, a poster, one of the many 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' flyers that his previous clients created to try and show support for their fallen hero. They weren't anything fancy- just a picture of him, standing facing the camera, wearing his usual mysterious mask with a little banner across the centre of the picture. That's what the regular ones looked like anyway. The one sent to me had an addition- a yellow line painted across Sherlock's eyes. I am all too aware of what that mark means.

Shake off thoughts.

Focus entirely on what is happening in the living room right now. Refuse to give in to that fear again.

John turns his million watt smile towards Sherlock, "Yeah, taking me out to dinner he is. Mrs Hudson is going to come and watch a DVD with you while we're out". Relax. Mrs. Hudson what would we do without you?


	4. Chapter 4

Bit of a long one I know- sorry!

Let me know what you all think so far!

* * *

Sherlock, as usual, is already dressed in a perfectly tailored suit- cut and stitched to his exact measurements- and so he plays some pieces for me while John gets ready.

The music is beautiful- a violin composition of "The River Flows in You" by Yiruma, one of my favorite modern composers. His music is so soft, so seamless and Sherlock captures it perfectly, swaying slightly, eyes closed. Seeing Sherlock this lost in a piece is a rare sight, he often voices his hatred for modern compositions, yet Yiruma seems to be an exception.

Soft footsteps come down the stairs. They enter the living room, but stay at the door until the piece is finished.

"Bit different to your usual", John says, picking up both his and sherlock's coats from the back of the door, "but really nice".

Sherlock lowers his bow and places his violin back in its case.

"It's Rebecca's favorite modern composer," he explains taking his coat and knotting his scarf around his neck. He calls for Mrs. Hudson. A minute later kitten heels are clicking on the staircase.

"ooh, ooh!" She chirps, opening the door smiling at us all. She turns towards Sherlock and John.

"Don't you two look smart?" her face glowing with adoration like a proud mother as she looks them over. Both in their finest suits with their best shoes; Sherlock in Spencer Hart and John in a custom made suit Sherlock gave him for christmas. They do look perfect.

They kiss and hug us goodbye then leave. I can still hear John muttering about being late as they go out the front door.

Turn. Look over at Mrs. Hudson. Feel that twinge in my chest again as she bustles about picking up papers and wiping off dust. She is undoubtably the glue that keeps this household together. We'd probably all be dead without her and hell only knows what I'd do tonight if I were left alone.

"Right then," she sits beside me on the sofa. Picks up my hand and examines the new cuts on my arms. A particularly nasty incident with a nail sticking out of a wall has left a scar, now faded to a purple-ish red, that stretches from my inner wrist around the front of my hand to the bottom of my little finger. She traces her fingers up it, feels the slightly raised areas and the indentations in my skin. Runs her thumb over the new cuts on my knuckles and lower arm. Look at her face. Micro-expressions, visible only for seconds on most people, break through her cheerful mask. Sadness, empathy, concern. She reassembles her mask before looking up at me and smiling. Why would my scars upset her?

"Have you ever baked anything from scratch?" she asks. Examine her eyes- excitement, trust. Search through memories for experience. If I have ever baked anything, I've deleted it. Shake head. She stands, taking my hand and pulls me towards the door, Gladstone running behind us.

We go into her kitchen. On the counters flour, yeast, sugar, cinnamon, eggs and milk are all laid out- clearly she had already planned tonights activities.

"How 'bout we make one of my favorites? Cinnamon sugar bread. You and Sherlock'll like it- full of sugar it is!" She smiles fondly as our names slip through her lips. How strange an action; to smile simply by saying a word.

But words are full of implications. Theres tone, context, volume, speed, accent- all of these things can take a word and twist it into whatever shape is needed. The word 'love' can be moulded into a key that opens almost every door and drops all defenses. 'Lust' too in fact.

Yet Mrs. Hudson said Sherlocks name the way she always does when referring to him; it's soft, adoring, the way a mother says her child's name, no hint of the malice, or venom that usually slips through peoples mouths when talking about any of the Holmes children. I wonder if she says my name like that when I'm not there.

I'm too lost in my analysis of her words to notice when she guides my hands with her own. Hands me eggs to crack and cups to measure. Cooking is sort of a science- baking more so than other kinds- and Mrs Hudson seems to have mastered it. She corrects my mistakes with well placed reassurance, shows me how to cut the dough and how much sugar to put in with the cinnamon, smiling continuously.

"You know, I never really wanted children", she says, taking the bread tin and putting it in the oven, "but when Sherlock came along I couldn't help but love him like he was my son". She's smiling. Adoration for my cousin clear on her face.

"And then John too" she continues, " and then you dear. You're like a granddaughter I never had but always wanted." Heart constricts. Stomach drops. My own mother didn't even speak to me like that. She didn't speak to me at all really. But Mrs. Hudson...she fills that void. The space that a mother should fill in a person- gives us all that knowledge that there is someone that is always there that loves us unconditionally.

Stand. Walk to her and hug her. Hold on tight. She does the same, stroking my hair.

"Love you too dear", She says.

We leave the bread, but take the timer through to the living room. Switch on TV. Pull blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over legs. Pull a side over Mrs Hudson's legs too. Quiet conversation is made, the TV flickers in the background.

Front door opens and closes. Feel blood freeze in veins. Sherlock or John would call out if they had come back early. Mrs Hudson is asleep with Glad seated beside her. Stand and go to door.

Find small package addressed to me in the same hand as the one that wrote my name on the letter. Pick it up, and slowly twist the key in the lock. Open door to reveal quiet empty street showing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Scan street for someone that could have delivered the package. A man is standing across the street staring at me. He is in his early thirties, 6ft 2, muscled, irish, military background, only child. Something about him doesn't let my eyes leave as my brain flies into motion. Hear growling sound from behind me.

Turn seconds too late, Gladstone is already out on the street, running at the man teeth bared. Shock crosses the man's face, but is quickly dispersed by a dark grin. Oh no, Glad.

Run after him in bare feet. Legs can't move quick enough. See the man pull his right leg back. No. Glad, no. Push legs faster, pull in more air. No, no, no.

Hear the thud as his foot makes contact with Gladstone's ribs. Hear the whimper that escapes the puppy and feel my heart break simultaneously. This man is dead.

He raises his hand, that smirk still on his face, and salutes me before turning and disappearing into a car.

"Oh god Glad, oh god". Fall to my knees next to him. Three broken ribs, breathing labored, he's crying and trying to turn towards me.

"No Glad stay there," Smooth the fur on his face. Blink past the moisture in my eyes. Pull out mobile from back pocket and dial number.

He answers on the first ring.

"Rebecca! How may I help you dear?" Mycroft's voice always softens when he speaks to me. Hear him assess my breathing.

"It's Gladstone" I say, throat thick with anger and upset.

"On my way" He says. I don't doubt he is. For all that I love Sher, Mycroft just has more resources. Right now I need speed and expertise to fix our puppy.

Continue to smooth Glad's fur as he whimpers on the ground. Feels like decades pass before I hear a car pull up.

Say, "sorry Gladstone" as I slide my hands under him and cradle him against my chest. Mycroft stands beside the open car door, a rare look of compassion on his face. We don't speak, we don't need to. Slide into car. Continue to mutter to Glad as we drive.

I need to know who that man was. I need data... But I don't want to involve anyone else. Resolve not to ask for Mycroft's help.

The vet wraps Gladstone's side, assures me that there are no internal punctures, and so we have to just wait for them to heal. She hands me pain medication for him- my poor little Gladstone- and informs me of dosage. He's been given some already, so he's pretty stoned as I pick him up and hold him to my neck like a baby. He's not crying anymore so I feel better. Mycroft stands scrolling through his phone in the waiting area. He looks up as I enter and puts his phone away.

"How is he?"

"Alive," I say. I'm still barefoot and in only jeans and a t-shirt. Shiver now that I've thought about the cold. Mycroft takes off his overcoat and wraps it around my shoulders, keeping one arm there as we go back to the car.

"Come here", he says as we reach the door. Roll eyes as he picks me up and carries me the four and a half steps to the car.

"I can walk"

"Yes but it's raining and you will catch a cold". For all that he seems calculating and dark, Mycroft cares more than any of us. As the oldest I think he felt it his duty to make up for our parents' absence. He would make sure we had clothes for school, that our homework was done despite our protests of it being stupid and irrelevant. He and Sherlock raised me, and so they worry about me in a parental way- even if that means carrying me so my feet don't get wet.

The car is warm. Feel Gladstone wiggle to get comfortable before falling asleep on my right shoulder. Open window to my left so that no smoke will go near him and light cigarette. Pull feet up onto the spare seat in the middle. Feel my entire body relax with the first inhale. Mycroft is staring at me, he's never approved of my bad habits.

"I have the man who attacked your dog in custody," he says looking down at Gladstone's bandages, "he's being taken care of".

Flash Mycroft my real smile- something I know he treasures as a rarity- "thank you".

"Anything for you," He returns my smile and places his hand on my ankle.

We arrive outside Baker Street and I get out the car. Mycroft says something but I don't hear the words. I turn around, trying to see if the man has returned to survey his damage but instead my eyes find something else.

On one of the green electrical boxes across the street an eye was painted in the same yellow colour as the spray paint used to deface the poster of Sherlock. It was watching the door of 221B.

Stare at it for a second before disappearing into the house. Mrs Hudson is still asleep. I go and take the bread from the oven, set it on the counter to cool. Pick up the package. Wander up to the flat.

Set Glad down in his bed with extra pillows to support his side. Perch self on the edge of my chair, knees pulled up, the package balanced on left knee. Pull string. Carefully tear brown paper- keep later for testing. Open box lid.

Inside is an envelope, and a red apple. Pick up apple and turn it in my hand. I.O.U has been carved into it's skin with a silver, flip open hand knife. Set it on the table and open the envelope.

Feel dark, cold, numb as I look down at the picture. I've seen this picture a thousand times. It's of two people in a park, a blonde haired boy and a freckled girl, smiling at each other with such happiness. I feel the forgotten wound of it opening up in my chest again. It's a picture of me and _him_ before he left. Back when I was happy.

I should feel scared. Whoever is watching us has hurt Gladstone, broken into the flat, marked Sher as a dead man and now- now they've found the one thing that they know can destroy me. I'm not scared though, not for me at least. For John, and Sherlock and _him_ yes- more than scared, terrified to the point of paralysis- but I'm not scared for me. I couldn't care less about what happens to me.

Put picture in back pocket. Notice gap in the dust that's settled on the bookcases. Cameras then. I love dust- dust is eloquent. Find the seven cameras dotted around the flat and pull them out. Leave wires on kitchen table.

Take research slides from microscope. Go to my room and throw some clothes, the envelope, the package and the keys to my flat in Dundee in my bag. Pull on coat and scarf.

I stand at the door of 221B and look around. I can see the first day here with John staring at me shocked. I see Sherlock's return and Gladstone's arrival. See the beautiful days of tea and toast and hugs, and the dark, coldness of danger nights. Everything that has happened here has left a mark, carved the memories into the walls and my skin.

Put Gladstone's pills on the kitchen table. Find paper and a pen:

_For Gladstone- give stated dosage. _

_Been called back to Dundee- case to investigate. Keep each other safe._

_I love you all_

_RH_

Light cigarette, pick up bag. Kiss Gladstone. Take breath and leave without looking back. If I did I wouldn't leave. But I have too, I have to go to keep them safe.

I need to get out of London to plan and investigate- but more importantly to find him and protect him. Sherlock is more than capable of looking after himself and John, but he's alone and he needs me.

Close door. Exhale the air of Baker Street for what might be the last time. Hail cab.

Say "Paddington station" to driver.


	5. Chapter 5

"Next stop Dundee"

Lean head on train window. I'm so tired. I've never needed a cup of coffee more in my entire life. Drag myself up from my seat and put scarf back on. It's four in the morning and it's freezing cold.

Get bag down from overhead rack and wait until the doors open. They do, and the unforgettable freezing scottish wind quickly claims me back. Ugh, I've not missed this. Walk into the station, growl audibly as I see that the coffee stand is closed- surely if anyone needs coffee it's the people getting off of trains in the middle of the night.

Phone beeps in my pocket. Pull it out and swipe finger across the screen.

I've had your car delivered to the station. You will find the keys in the ignition. -MH

Smile as I round the corner and see her- my beloved car- sitting under a streetlight. I adore London and everything that it has to offer, but nothing on this earth compares to driving. Its fast and dangerous and freeing... I hadn't realised how much I'd missed it until now.

Run hand over the bonnet as I walk to the drivers side, the paint is smooth and cold, blackest black and mine. Fall into the seat, adjust it and sigh as I melt into the leather. Being in the car has brought about a sudden surge of energy. I don't think theres any coffee in the house- decide to go to Tesco on Riverside.

Turn key, the engine roars to life and I laugh. I love this car. I love the freedom.

Pull away and make my way to Tesco- driving considerably over the posted speed limit, but thats all part of the fun.

The store is empty other than the night shift staff, all of which are sleep deprived and running on caffeine to get to the end of their shift. Speaking of which... Find tea and coffee section. Pick up usual filter brand (dark roast, strongest blend). Pick up another four packs- best be prepared. Go to medicine section. Throw a few packs of caffeine tablets in basket too. John would never let me buy all of this- he made me quit caffeine cold turkey. Smile a little at the thought of them, miles away in the maze of London. Feel pang of something in my chest- put it down to nicotine withdrawal.

Make my way to the checkouts. There are only a few open, I spot the cashier at one of them and smile.

"Why hello there Ryan" I say, setting my basket down on the conveyer. He looks up and all but jumps out of his chair.

"Rebecca!" he comes around and gives me a hug, smiling like an idiot. I usually shop in here and Ryan is always working so we eventually got talking. He's just a little taller than John, dark hair, slight stubble and the darkest brown eyes I've ever seen. He's strong for his size, muscles evident under his uniform- sturdy like John. He goes back around and starts scanning through my items.

"So, back from London are we?"

I nod, "Yeah, got some things to do back here".

He laughs, a childish, endearing giggle, "I wondered why you had enough caffeine to kill somebody in here". Ryan is well aware of my work and methods, not that he approves, but I did successfully prove that he and one of his friends were not involved in a fight in the city centre, so he accepts it with quiet disapproval.

"How's Uni?" I say. He's studying some sort of bio-medicine.

He shakes his head; obviously not as well as he'd like.

"Stressful" he laughs, that little giggle again. "Lucky you've got you're endless supply of Holmes family money and you're smarter than Einstein so you don't need to put up with it".

Shrug- a compliment is a compliment after all, and it does a strange thing to my stomach, makes it jump and twist in an uncomfortable way.

I pay for my things and wave him goodbye, saying "see you later".

"Don't be a stranger you!" he shouts, waving as I leave.

He's so like John with his light mood and kind face, always making conversation and offering up hugs and causal touches even though he knows i'm not particularly fond of them. But, I don't mind when he does it. Interesting in a way that i'm not really ready to look into. Need cigarettes.

Cigarette kiosk is on the way out. Buy a twenty pack and a lighter from the elderly woman behind the desk.

Drive back to flat doing well over forty. Pull into usual parking space. It all feels familiar in a strange way- like this life was decades ago. The last time I was here I was stitching up Sherlock's side in the middle of the night.

The last time I left I hadn't intended to live much longer.

Press button of lift. Get in. Feel the press of the gun on my side. It's been inside my coat since I left London. Usually it's John who's armed- but he's not here now so I need to protect myself.

Doors open on top floor. See my door. My flat. Feel strange at the sight. Pull out keys and go to open door. The key doesn't go in- theres already a set in the lock on the other side.

There's someone in my flat.

Hear rustling from the living room. Feel for gun in coat. Walk in.

He sits on the floor surrounded by the pictures I had never bothered to clean up. Let go of the gun. I doubt I'd be able to shoot straight anyway. My hands shake too much. Should I turn away now? Save myself the inevitable pain that seeing his face will bring? He turns to face me before I've made up my mind.

I see him and I know I can't ever leave.

He smiles at me- the same one I still think about, but I don't admit that even to myself- its all affection, but a little sad. Feel the overwhelming urge to remove the sadness. It's instinct. Regardless of what he's done to me I can't let him be sad.

"Hi", he says and I lose all functions. I can't speak. I can't move. It's him. He's here in my flat looking at our old pictures.

He's here. Liam is here.

He motions for me to sit next to him. I stare open mouthed. He sighs, putting the picture down- my copy of the one currently in my back pocket- and walks over to me. He smells the same- Ted Baker XO for men. Take deep, involuntary breath. Smell is one of the best ways of triggering memory. I inhale and remember everything that I've been trying to forget.

Remember driving to St. Andrews in the sun singing at the top of our lungs. Going to the top of the Law Hill at night just looking out at the lights on the water. Remember just being with him and being happy.

Now, remember him leaving. Remember the days that just fade together into grey nothingness left alone in my flat.

He raises his hands and places them on my shoulders gently, so gently, like I'll break under his hands. I already have.

Scan over him; shaved this morning (he always hated stubble), haircut two weeks ago, height and weight the same. He's exactly the same- unchanged by my not being here, breathing proof that he doesn't need me.

I can feel him looking over me- he'll notice my weight loss and the bags under my eyes, the new scars and the little puncture wounds in the crook of my elbow.

"Becca". My old nickname. Broken pieces in chest shatter more than before. I'm still standing staring blankly at him. Blink. Shake him off and go outside.

Light cigarette. Practically inhale the entire thing. Brain is flying off in every direction. I can't think. He's here and he's alive- thats good. He's here but he'll leave again- know for fact that I will not survive that again. I barely made it out last time.

But I did make it out. I made it out without him and the help that he didn't ever think to offer.

Footsteps on the wood. Breathing pattern- one that I would recognize anywhere. He stops a few steps away- he never did like my smoking, I did stop for him but that was before. I don't owe him anything anymore.

"Look", he says. Raise hand. He stops. Deep breath.

"I'm only here to make sure that nothing happens to you until I finish a case then I'll be gone". Take draw of cigarette. Turn towards him with coldest gaze. I've never used that look on him before.

"You don't need to be around me, you can go and carry on doing whatever you have been until I leave". Throw away filter. Open pack for another.

"I'm not going," he says taking a step towards me despite my gaze. It is working though- his shoulders are hunched, posture not it's usual, head slightly lowered- I can feel him squirm. Feel the power of making him feel like that. Read into the micro-expressions he shows as he says the words; they show that he's not totally sure of what he's saying- that he's not sure if he's going to stay. He hasn't made up his mind because he didn't think I'd be here- he does have a spare key after all.

Smile bitterly.

Liar.

Spit the words "didn't stop you before" at him.

"I had too,". Feel anger colour everything red. He didn't _have_ to do anything. He was the one person that I was always happy with. He always came first- before me, the work, everything. I made sure he had everything he needed.

Turn to go indoors but he blocks me in.

"You were destroying yourself Becca".

True- but I never called on him when I was. If I felt a bad night coming on I would lock myself away in the flat and do my damage alone. He made himself care- I never asked anything of him. He looks like he might cry. He should.

Hearts, emotions, caring, all of its useless. It's a chemical defect.

Say, "I fail to see how that has anything to do with you".

He hesitates. Shakes his head and goes over to 'his' chair. Head falls into his hands. Clearly he's run out of words. He can't explain away his actions and knows that I'm aware of everything he's doing and everything he's thinking.

"I just-" he starts. Doesn't finish his sentence because he knows nothing he says will make any difference.

"Get out" I say. Stare at him in disgust. He disgusts me. Repels me. Feel my mind finally rid itself of everything it's held onto for so long. Feel myself purge everything good and harbor only the bad. I don't need him now. He's gone.

Head raises, eyes meet.

"You don't mean that"

"I do. Now get out". Go to door and open it. He stands, totally dumbstruck by my actions, and leaves without another word. At the door of the lift he turns and looks at me. Emotion evident on his face- disappointment, hurt, loss.

"Have I disappointed you?" I say. He does nothing.

The lift doors open and he steps in. Feel nothing- no hurt, no longing- as he disappears. It appears that I'd been holding out for an imaginary version of him that doesn't exist. What does exist is a coward, a man that tries to make himself the victim to avoid being blamed.

If he really were my friend he would have stayed during those nights the way that John does. He would pick up on the little markers that signal a bad night and divert them.

Within a week of meeting John he had picked up on these and successfully stopped every danger night that reared its head in his direction regardless of how bad it seemed. John is a friend, a hero; Liam is a poison and a coward.

Feel a danger night coming on now. Not due to his leaving, but due to the freedom that I now have. I have no one to keep safe, no people to hurt if I burn myself up a bit.

Feel a danger night and smile. It's all consuming once it starts. It's dark and dangerous and so beautiful it hurts.

Get changed and grab some money. Lock the door and head out into the cold.

I don't feel anything other than the burning need for destruction and chaos and anarchy.

Smile.


	6. Chapter 6

Wake next morning on the kitchen floor. Flat destroyed. Surge of pride as I survey the damage.

Stand. Wobble slightly- hangover and substance come downs are never good for balance. Walk through flat. It's empty other than the bottles and paint splatters everywhere. Flashbacks to the 'glow in the dark' night I ended up at in the University Union. Remember everything- and everyone- being covered in neon paint.

Raise hands. I'm covered too apparently. Laugh. Walk through to bathroom, but don't turn on the light so that I can see what I've had painted on me.

Avoid the mirror in order to get the full picture once I've closed the door.

Turn.

Freeze.

Mixed in with the pink and green hand prints that cover my skin is a single line painted across my eyes.

A single yellow line.

Translate from Suzhou numerical system, cross translate with London A-Z.

Outcome; _Deadman._

Strangely I don't panic. Turn on light and begin taking samples of the paint with a swab to test. It appears that whoever has been watching 221 isn't interested in any of it's permanent residents- instead they've followed me from London back to Dundee. Interesting.

Set swabs aside. Take shower to remove the rest of the paint. Leave hair to dry into it's usual unruly curls. Change into a pair of skinny jeans, white vest and a denim shirt.

The flat is a mess, but there isn't time to clean it. Go to bag and pull out battered notebook, samples from Baker Street and the things that have been sent to me. None of them have any trace of a location, a person, of anything; it's infuriating.

Spend the rest of the day reading through notes and test results. A book on the Suzhou numerical system, a few of Sherlock and John's old case files and empty coffee cups litter the table in front of me. How can there be no leads? There has to be at least one. One piece of DNA, or dust or _something_. Hear a beeping noise come from my laptop- email from Sherlock;

Do you plan on telling me why you left London or are John and I just to sit and wait out a reply?

-SH.

He's annoyed, clearly. Partly because I left without saying, and partly because he will know that I've left on a case- he hasn't had anything more than a six in weeks. Compose reply;

Case related- what appeared to be a nine, now demoted to a four.

-RH.

He replies almost instantly.

Tedious. When will you be returning?

-SH

Unsure. Going to sort some things out here so I can permanently stay in London. I'll let you know what I'm doing.

-RH

Close laptop. Set up samples of paint to run. Results in an hour approx.

Need more data. Need to get closer to whoever is hunting me. Sigh- I hate disguises but sometimes its the easiest way to gain information.

Go back to bathroom. Turn towards the mirror and study face- pale, freckled, surrounded by untamable curls. I don't mind how I look and that part of the reason why I hate changing it so much. I hate doing my hair- I just let it dry as it wants- and I hate anything other than my usual makeup- I've become incredibly good at getting my eyeliner to flick up evenly on both eyes.

So, we need to go in the opposite direction to what I am.

Pull open cupboard. I keep a stash of hair-dye and makeup for times like this- still don't like doing it though. Pick to dye hair bright ginger- semi-permanent- because going blonde would be too obvious. Apply cream to hair- it smells vulgar- and carry on picking my new genetics.

Look for colour contacts next. Find a pair and smile. A strange green, blue colour- one that matches Sherlock's perfectly. Collect heavy cover foundation to cover my freckles. It's strange hiding them- for my entire life Sherlock has commented on how he liked them because he has a few on his neck while the rest of the family do not, it set us apart from them, but not from each other. John always just said they were "adorable".

Let out small, slightly forced laugh as I think of the days that John sat and counted them, smiling widely all crinkled eyes and warmth. Laugh again.

God, I miss them.

Rinse off hair, put in contacts, cover freckles and apply eye makeup to change the shape of my eyes. Thin down lips, fill in cupid's bow so my lips are no longer a mirror of Sherlock's.

Look up at the girl in the mirror and feel strange- she looks nothing like me, but she is. Raise hand to touch face. Shake myself mentally and go towards the wardrobe. Think about what type of clothing fits this face- settle for _very_ girly dress that I used for a case a few years back. It's light blue, a skater style skirt with a simple white top, pull on a denim jacket, a pair of battered old brown brogues, some large framed glasses and a small satchel.

There- thats not me, far too girly for my liking, but for this girl it's perfect. Look in full length mirror and practice making my mannerisms more shy, more endearing in a sweet innocent way rather than my usual confidence. It takes a while, but eventually they stick enough to go out.

The union would be the best place to start. Try and find CCTV tapes from the night and copy them. Might be difficult, but not overly so.

Walk towards town with my back not as straight as usual. Mess with hair a lot. Put in headphones. Mentally hide everything that is me and project everything that this girl is. A name would probably help too- something mundane, typical for a girl my age and nationality.

Scan through mind palace for records- find them stored on the top right bookcase in the living room of 221B anchored to a book with a red cover and a pink spec of paint on the spine;

_Most popular girl names, 1994, uk- Jessica_.

Leave mind palace and keep walking. Jessica isn't that bad, but it lacks the familiar ring that my own name has in my ears.

Jessica.

Needs a surname. Go for the obvious choice- Smith.

Run through information;

_Name: Jessica Smith._

_Born: Dundee_

_Age: 18_

_Student: Psychology MSc._

I reach the union just as I settle my new identity into my mind. It's quiet. There are students standing outside smoking- inhale deeply (Jessica does not smoke). Look around with head dipped slightly, show typical self-conscious body language. Turn to look at the door to the union- two security people man the door checking for Student I.D. Ugh, the tedious necessities of a change an identity. Fabricate lie about losing my bag the previous night (student I.D in there too). Tell them that I am here to try and find it again. Add in a few crocodile tears to soften them up. Wipe eyes under glasses, pout lower lip, push glasses up a bit. Mentally smile as I see the men take pity on the small, unlucky little girl in front of them. One of them- a bald man in his late forties- has a daughter my age, I remind him of her, hit one of the weak spots in his tough exterior.

"Just go right in sweetheart, someone'll help ya" he says with a concerned smile. Nod and offer a shy smile back.

Say, "thank you," in a shaky voice and push up glasses again.

"Anytime, Love" the other says.

John used to call me that.

"Love".

In the mornings when he was still groggy he'd call me that and kiss my head. Or when I'd finally dragged my arse back home after being out all week destroying myself he'd say it with the saddest look in his eyes.

That thing in my chest squeezes painfully. Deep breath. Focus.

I pick the lock of the CCTV room and take all of the tapes from the previous night.

I go home and take off all of the make up and remove the contacts- sadly the red hair has to stay for a while.

I get changed into jeans and one of Sherlock's ratty old t-shirts that still smell like him.

I watch the tapes and find the moment that I was marked as a deadman.

After drawing the line on my face the man looks directly into the camera and smirks. He raises and hand, salutes, and then walks off.

The man on the video is familiar.

The man on the video is the same man that saluted me as Gladstone lay unmoving at his feet.


	7. Chapter 7

So, this is a tiny little chapter that is essentially running up to the climax.

You guys are gonna hate me- i'm so sorry.

Anyway, enjoy.

* * *

The next week passes in a haze of anger and mid-case caffeine highs.

Wake on the kitchen table hugging the microscope. Ugh, sleep. Hours that can be used tracking and finding that man.

So far I've managed to track him from the Union to the short stay apartments beside the casino. He'd checked into the apartment using the name S. Moran, an ex army soldier who had close ties to Moriarty and his web. Searched train stations and airports to find out where he is- Edinburgh apparently. Mycroft obviously had him 'taken care of' then released with the warning to stay away from us and that was that.

Rub eyes and wander over to coffee maker. Every morning I run though the same deductions, the facts that I know so far to make sure I don't forget anything. Flick switch and wait for much needed coffee. Scan room for cigarettes, find them slightly crumpled where my arm had crushed the packet. Pull one out and light it.

Sound indicates coffee is ready (thank god). Pull out biggest mug I have and fill it, topping it with some cold water. Practically drain the mug in one. Rub eyes again. Open laptop and get directions to his last sighting in Edinburgh.

Finish coffee, shower and change clothes. The disguise isn't needed anymore; my hair is back to it's normal colour and I don't need to bother with those awful girly dresses that are all pink and frills. Pack a bag to take with me, small enough to carry continuously incase I can't stop anywhere. Add gun and extra ammunition on top of the clothes.

According to Moran's file, he was kicked out for attacking and killing innocents and a few members of his squad that he disagreed with. He then found Moriarty and his web- his ruthless violence obviously proving a service that Moriarty saw the value of. Pictures of them both in different locations around the world- laughing of all things- show just how close they were. The question now is why does he want me? Shouldn't he want Sherlock? Need to find him. Need to ask him, why me? And then why Gladstone? Then put a bullet through his skull.

Jump as laptop makes a noise. E-mail from John.

Hows things going in Dundee? Gladstone's doing much better now- no longer on the pills! (Sherlock's hardly put him down since the incident he's like mother hen). He sends his love, as does Mrs. Hudson.

Love you,

John.

Feel sharp pull in chest. John, as normal, unharmed and lovely, while I sit here packing a gun and thinking about my survival chances (currently sitting at 34%). If he knew he'd have a fit. If Sherlock knew he'd go out and kill Moran in the most painful way he could imagine.

At least I can't miss them if I die. The inevitable peace without boredom that death offers is growing ever more appealing and I'm not sure what I think of that.

Type back reply.

Type back a note- that's what people do don't they? Leave a note?

Everything's fine.

Glad to hear it- of course he has, Sherlock's secretly pretty soft.

Give everyone my love too.

I've got a few more things to do before I go. Keep Sherlock safe for me won't you? You know what he gets like when he hasn't got a case. Gladstone too actually.

I miss you both.

I love you both.

-RH

Slam laptop closed. Feel tears escape my eyes. Wipe them away.

Do not think of London. Or the insides of 221B. Or Sherlock or John.

Think of nothing but the matter in hand- finding and killing Moran before he gets his hands of either of them. I've said before that I'd die for either of them and I meant it- their lives have purpose now, to keep each other safe, and mine is to make sure they can continue doing that.

Pick up car keys and lock flat without looking back. Throw bag over shoulder. Pull coat around me tighter and flip collar up. Get into lift.

Watch the numbers going down. It stops at two. A man gets in- he's new to the building- and smiles at me. He's young- no older than thirty- and wearing an expensive suit. He smiles at me. Smile back out of politeness.

Doors open on bottom floor. Feel something stab my neck. Turn to see the man holding an empty syringe.

"Drug user are you?" he laughs, "you're very resilient".

Eye lids feel...heavy. Walls spin. Look over at a figure who has appeared at the door.

"Finally" Moran says, crouching down to pick me up. He throws me in the back of a car.

Try and speak but mouth isn't under control. Nothing is. Everything feels like rubber.

"Calm down dear," he says, "I owe you after all".

Hear the engine roar. Feel...eyes...close.

* * *

Ugh, i'm sorry.

It only gets worse from here.


	8. Chapter 8

So a warning straight up: TORTURE AND IMPLIED RAPE.

Don't like don't read.

Again, i'm sorry for this.

* * *

Everything. Hurts.

Four broken ribs. Cracked jaw bone. Two black eyes. Approximately fourteen cuts that require stitches- sixteen that do not. Dehydrated. Concussion. Desperate for cigarette.

Hear footsteps. Back into corner again. Can't do it again. No. No more.

Light from outside hurts my eyes. See two bodies enter the room and pick me up by my armpits. Squeeze eyes shut agains stabbing pain in my ribs.

Set down in the chair as always. Wrists bloody and raw from the bindings, but they tie them tighter anyway. Growl at the man. He laughs, then slaps me hard across the face. Learnt that giving a reaction does nothing so I just stare. Familiar footsteps walk towards me.

Moran.

Take breath and go to mind palace. A few times I've managed to get deep enough before they start that I don't feel quite as much, but recently thats not been happening. They've been distracting me with video feeds live from 221B. Telling me that they could be in there within seconds if he just gave the order.

He spins the chair around so it faces the wall. Hear switch flick and a projector starts showing videos. Oh no.

He moves a strand of hair that it stuck in dried blood on my neck and leans his head in close.

"Now," he whispers, running his hand down the side of my face, "you're going to look at these people and tell me _everything_. All of their dirty little secrets that I can use against them."

Theres a member of the British Government on screen hiding a disgusting secret about his preference- young boys it appears.

I can't tell him though. I won't tell him.

Try and hide in mind palace- run up stairs into sitting room of 221B then into Sherlock and John's room- just beginning to hide beneath the green duvet- a punch to the gut quickly pulls me back.

"We've been doing this for a month now and i'm getting tired" he begins to walk around me while someone wheels in a trolley. Feel mind begin to shut down even more than it has as the knives rattle against the metal. He picks up a silver hand knife and smiles.

"You know what I used this for yes?" Nod in reply- he carved the apple with it. I.O.U it said. I still don't know what is owed.

"Good girl. Now, it's obvious that you're not going to talk, and it would pain me to keep on adding scars to that," he pauses, scans over my body with hungry eyes and wets his lips, "perfect little body of yours," he stands behind me and pulls my head back to expose my neck, pressing the knife hard enough to cut the skin. He caresses the side of my face with his other hand.

"So I thought that I should give you a little incentive," he nods towards the image on the wall which stops, shifts and eventually focuses.

It shows Sherlock and John in the back of a cab- both of them looking haggard- they're looking for me. Entire body shuts down at the sight. The memories of them have kept me somewhat sane between the hours locked in the dark and these torture sessions. I thought he wanted me not them?

He can't have them.

They're mine.

Feel an overwhelming urge to protect them mix with anger.

Set feet firmly on floor. Twist to the right, causing the blade to cut my neck- deep enough to hurt, but not deep enough to be dangerous. Go towards the screen to confirm it's them.

Feel entirely new rush of anger when I know that it is.

Four men have entered and are standing either side of Moran. Time to start the plan then.

Idiots- I'm tied to a chair, underweight and 5'5, what am I going to do?

Sit back down facing them. Smile at the confusion.

Clear throat. Voice comes out hoarse from weeks of non-use.

"I suggest that you tell you're boys to leave us alone if you wish to make any form of progress". He waves a hand and the men leave. Watch him walk towards me and crouch- his hand sliding up my thigh slightly. Shiver in disgust.

"Glad to see we've decided to cooperate". Laugh.

"I'm not cooperating you idiot- _I'm bored". _

Brace for impact. First to the face, not very effective considering most of it is swollen and numb. Then to the ribs. Double over gasping for air. How can there be so much pain and I still be alive? Why would my body not just shut down? Bodies are useless.

"BORED?" he screams, cutting the binding off my wrists and picking me up by my hair. Try and breath but ribs refuse to allow lungs to expand. Suck in more air as he throws me down against the wall. Fight urge to curl into ball- if I want to distract him long enough to carry out the plan then I need to keep him fighting. Start dragging myself to the computer in the corner. He follows me.

"Going to kick me unto oblivion like you did to my dog?" I spit, glaring up at him. He does just that. He kicks and kicks until my vision goes black and my ears are ringing.

So.

Much.

Pain.

Almost at the computer. Need to just press one button. Moran grabs my outstretched wrist and flips me over. His eyes are glazed over, breathing labored but stabling out a bit. See his eyes change as his mind is made up.

Did not expect this- it's not in his Modus Operandi, only violence is.

I'm obviously not the only one that's changed this month. His brain has and I've been too delirious to deduce it. Oh, god.

He pins my hands either side of my head and presses his body against mine. He doesn't say anything. I can't move for pain in my ribs.

Feel his lips and teeth graze over my neck. No, no, no, no.

Hands slide down my sides. Knee pushes between my legs. No. No.

Run into mind palace and bury myself in memories.

_The first day I arrived in 221B, dancing with Mrs. Hudson until John came home. The look on his face when he saw me..._

Feel ratty old hospital gown they gave me being torn off. No. No. No.

_Grabbing John's hand at four in the morning as we ran from a lead, laughing and smiling as Sherlock took my other hand and I was shouting "run! Run! Run!"..._

Hear grunts from above me. Feel physically sick.

_The night Sherlock caved and we sat hanging out of the window smoking, laughing when John saw us from the street and started throwing stuff at us..._

_The days we all sat and taught Gladstone the basics..._

_The times falling asleep in the safety of the hollow between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. His smell- sweet and clean and masculine. His skin, surprisingly warm. His arms secure around me, rubbing my back slightly. His voice saying "it's alright, I'm here, it's alright"..._

Feel pressure of other body lift. The gown being thrown towards me. A kick in the side. Door closes leaving me in the room. I never get left in here. I get taken back to the dark room with the camera- this room has no cameras and no one watching, hence the things that happen here.

Skin feels disgusting.

Feel like I'll never be clean again. Want to set fire to everything to get rid of him on my body.

Stomach lurches and empties what little food was in there. Eyes are filled with water. Not tears- I'm not crying, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of that.

Spend a few minutes trying to calm mind and stomach before trying to stand. Legs are so weak that I need to hold onto the walls. Pull hospital gown back on.

Can hear Moran punching walls and arguing with the other men three doors down. Need to hurry.

Sit at computer. Sherlock and John are still in the cab. Raise hand and touch screen. Touch John's cheek and imagine the slight pull of stubble on my fingertips.

Touch Sherlock's and feel the smooth skin under my hand.

The water in my eyes turns to tears.

Sherlock is looking out of the window, wringing his hands together, while John looks almost directly at the camera.

Can see from faint red glow at edges of screen that it has a light on it. Open system on computer and begin imputing message:

The location, the names and "I love you both".

It's taken nearly two and a half weeks to plan this out.

It had to be untraceable (so not a direct message).

I had to retrace the route I think we took to get here (a drugged mind is not very good at taking directions).

I had to wait for the opportunity to be alone in this room, and now, have had to change the delivery method to morse code.

Begin to make the light flash. John's army training has made him unable to ignore morse code regardless of where he is. See his brow furrow before his face looses all colour. He swallows, pulls out his notebook and starts writing the message. He nods once it's down and I collapse. See John show Sherlock the notebook.

See the absolute fear that takes Sherlock, then the all consuming rage. He demands the cab stops, opens the door, and he and John begin running full speed down the street.

Stage one- done.

Open webpage and type out message:

Top shelf, clear bottle. Keys on counter. Fourth lamp post, behind bins.

Send.

Type few lines of code to wipe systems.

Stage Two- done.

Now sleep.

_Sleep._


	9. Chapter 9

"Get up" Moran pulls me into reality with a slap to the face.

Try to sit up but fail. I'm too weak to do anything- I can barely deduce anything about him today because my minds gone.

See him motion to someone. A man walks in with a large bag and sets it down next to my head. Can't do anything other than stare at him blankly. A new torture method perhaps- I doubt theres many left.

They've cut, burned, pulled, stretched, whipped, beat and water boarded me at least twice a day for a month now- theres nothing left to do other than kill me, but they won't do that. I'm more valuable alive- shame really. Death seems so perfect from down here on the floor surrounded in my own blood, vomit and spit.

"Food will help," the man says, "other than that she seems to be fighting on quite well". He leaves the room. Moran leans in.

"I love a stubborn woman," he presses him mouth to the cut on my neck.

"Bring in the food."

A tray is set in front of my face. Nothing special- sugary foods because my body can't deal with anything complex just now. Frown at the food. I'm past the point of hunger where the food is appealing.

He pulls me up to sit against the wall, moves my hair behind my ears and lights a cigarette. Inhale the smoke automatically. So, so good. Perfect. Heaven in the last circle of Hell.

"Eat then," he nods towards the tray. I don't move. He waits for a few more seconds before raising his hand for the medical man to come back in.

"Do it," he says, taking a draw of his cigarette. He man nods once, opens his bag and pulls out a feeding tube.

Oh, hell.

A few hours later, I'm back in my cell curled up in my usual corner.

In about four hours they will arrive.

They will both run in, so unthinking in their panic that they won't notice anything- they'll just want to see me alive. Even Sherlock will miss things simply because it's me thats been taken.

Think about what they're faces look like. John, all soft lines and smile lines. Sherlock, all sharp angles and hidden affection. Face has almost returned to normal- enough for me to smile at the thought of them.

At least I'll get to see them one last time. I'll smile at them and they'll smile back to reassure me.

That'll be nice. A smile to remembered them by, even if it is forced.

Door of cell opens exactly when I expect it to. A man, on his own. Been ordered to check that I'm not dead. Sadly I'm not. Not yet anyway.

He leans in. Meet his eyes- familiar, and the darkest brown eyes I've ever seen. Dark hair, slight stubble.

"Holy shit Becca", his voice and hands shake as they fake examining me. Inhale, he smells the same- smells like the hug he gave me on my first night back in Dundee while I bought the coffee. Coffee, how I miss coffee.

"I'm fine," I say, voice hoarse. Meet his eyes again.

"You need to treat me like an enemy right now Ryan," he's moving soft hands over my cuts and burns, trying to heal the new scars with his fingertips. It feels strange having someone touch me without meaning harm, and he doesn't. He's affectionate like always.

Stomach lurches and heart drops. Still not ready to address these feelings, I don't even have time to anymore. I only have hours left.

His hand traces up my arm to rest on my cheek.

"I'll be back in a second."

Not two minutes later he returns with a clean hospital gown and a basin of water.

"They want me to clean you up a bit and they've turned off the CCTV in here for now," he kneels beside me and starts wetting a small wash cloth. I'm past the point of caring about anyone seeing me naked now- my body's so bloody beat up it doesn't even look like a body anymore. Nod slightly at him.

He sits cross legged in front of me, relaxed slightly because he knows theres no eyes watching him, making him be rough with me.

He touches my ankle and lifts it onto his lap. He looks at me.

"This is going to hurt just as much as one of those sessions," he says, swallowing thickly, "but I need to get you cleaned up." Nod again. I trust him.

Stomach lurches again. _Ryan._

He washes the dirt and grime off of my legs before starting to really clean out one of my wounds. A pretty deep, partly healed and very infected cut down the outside of my right leg made with a painfully blunt knife.

I grind my teeth together and screw my eyes shut. It hurts just as much now as it did at the time. Burning, searing white pain that makes my eyes blur.

"I know, I know" he soothes, stopping to gently run his hand along the broken skin.

"Hey, c'mon look at me,". Open eyes. Look at him. Really look.

Even here, the dark rooms that even Hell doesn't want, he's smiling at me. And it's not forced. He's really smiling. Butterflies fill every piece of empty space in me. Feel brows crease.

Who knew? That boy who eventually said hi to me one day, who openly shows me affection while others are repulsed by me every single time I return to Dundee...Who I hadn't even thought about... But now...

Now he's here, surrounded by fuzzy light from the doorway, trying his damnedest to save me. Sitting with me in Hell washing away the evil that's been done.

Now he's everything more than the boy from Tesco.

"Are you listening?" his hand reaches out and touches my cheek. Turn to him. He smiles again.

"Sorry, zoned out," my voice is still painfully hoarse. He lets out one of those endearing little giggles and raises the wash cloth to my face.

"I was saying," he moves around my face, across my forehead and down my nose (wince slightly, broken nose too then).

"That if you' have told me the first time I spoke to you that I'd be the one you'd ask to bring you something while you were here I'd have told you to piss off". He laughs again, try to join in, _want_ to join in. Ribs have other ideas.

He speaks again, "to be fair I never thought you'd be somewhere like this. I didn't think places like this existed in real life". He shifts and begins washing my arms.

"They do," I tell him, watching as he removes the dirt and dried blood enough to show some skin.

He carries on in silence after that. He doesn't say a word, just occasionally sniffs or blinks a few times before carrying on. I don't talk because I don't have the energy.

But if I did? If I did I still wouldn't say the things I'm thinking because I can't get the words out. Emotions have never really been my area- not my own at least.

Listen to pattern of guards outside. In twelve steps we will have exactly fifty-seven seconds without someone at the door watching. I squeeze the hand that's washing mine. He looks up- red rimmed eyes and running nose, crying?- and nods.

Four steps.

Three steps.

Two.

One.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pill bottle. I made these a few months ago, but didn't think I'd ever need them. Didn't ever imagine being in a situation like this.

He puts it onto my tongue. Move it to sit between my bottom right gum and cheek. The capsule won't dissolve- it'll only let the contents out with a hard bite.

He watches me move the capsule into place then nods, reaching back down for the cloth.

I have about two hours before the chaos starts.

I have two hours left.

Weigh up damage probability. Stop mid-way through because it really doesn't matter now does it?

Reach up right hand to his cheek. Trace fingers over the stubble. Feel the warmth of him under my hands.

What's the harm in a little indulgence before the end?

Pull his confused face towards mine.

"What ar-" cut him off with a gentle, so gentle it's barely there, kiss. Feel his entire body relax beneath my hand. It feels good. It feels perfect. It feels so painful to know that this 'what if' will be left behind as soon as I get dragged from this room. I've said it a million times before- caring is useless, a chemical defect that can only serve as a weakness, but I can feel myself being pulled towards him. Surge of dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin confirm this.

He moves ever so slightly closer and applies a tiny bit of pressure, conscious of my wounds.

Don't care about wounds. Or the pain.

Care about the distance between the two of us, and how it really needs to be gone.

Pull him closer. Wrap hand around the back of his neck as he does the same.

Pull back in time for the guard to walk past the door. Ryan looks at me funny. Pull lip up in a sort of smile. He kisses the back of my hand, nods and carries on washing me.

A 'what if?' to end all 'what if?'s".

Even in the face of death I can't stop being impulsive- can't stop taking things from people and hurting them.

He's obviously hurt now. He's hurt because he knows that I'm not coming out of here.

He's hurt because he cares.

Hear Mycroft's voice drifting through my head: "Caring, Rebecca, isn't an advantage"

I know he's right because of the look in Ryan's eyes.

It's dull and life-less and distant.

Just like me then.


	10. Chapter 10

i'd like to apologise in advance for this chapter. Prepare for angst.

* * *

YOU!", Moran kicks the door of my cell open and flies towards me. I must've fallen asleep.

I suppose it's time.

He picks me up by my hair and starts dragging me down the corridor. The other room is down the other way. Another door is kicked open and daylight floods in.

The rooftop.

Not as I originally planned, but fitting.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" he screams, holding me over the edge of the roof by my neck. Look down to see two figures jump from a car. Turn back towards Moran.

He pulls me back onto the roof, rummages in his pockets and throws a mobile at me.

"Phone him."

Open phone and dial Sherlock's number. He answers before the first ring has finished.

"Rebecca! We're here. Where are you? What floor are you on? Can you hear me? Rebecca?! Are you alright?! I'll kill him!", all of the words merge together as one as he talks. Look over at Moran. He's smiling now, arms crossed, posture relaxed.

"I think this has worked out rather beautifully", he says.

"I.O.U a fall my dear. I owe Sherlock Holmes a life."

Confusion. Ask "what?".

He laughs at Sherlock still babbling on the phone.

"See Mr. Holmes down there took something from me that day. He promised to kill himself in order to save his friends- one extraordinary life for a few ordinary ones". He lights a cigarette and begins pacing.

"But he didn't did he? And as a result, I lost someone very dear to me. Moriarty and I shared the same opinions on many things you see, but it's just NOT THE SAME!".

More pacing. Can already see where this is going. Have done for about a week now, but I need time to position them. Let him talk some more.

"So, I figured that I should take something valuable from him. Dr. Watson would have worked yes, but you were so much more fun. You're like fire. You burn bright and destroy everything that touches you then you fizzle out. I'm just speeding up the process.

Just taking what I'm owed- the head of a Holmes splattered all over the walls while the other watches. You're the best of them so it had to be you."

Lift phone to ear.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

Hear his feet slide to a halt on the floor.

"Rebecca?!". Panic. Desperation. Feel chest go tight and mind begin to race.

This is going to hurt him more than I ever thought.

"Come to the roof" I tell him. Stand up and walk over to the edge of the roof. Hear him take off, John not two steps behind.

Moran laughs, "I like you're style. Always Idolising that cousin of yours, even in death? Seems the only right way for you to go. But you'll stay dead unlike him."

See figures run out of the door. Feel for pill in mouth.

"Hi", I say. See both of their faces again. So beautiful, so loved.

"Rebecca?" Sherlock's voice is flat. Emotionless. His face is blank, trying and succeeding to hide emotions. John, however, looks like he's about to break.

"I haven't got long Sher," use his nickname to start hitting him in his weak spots.

"Get away from the ledge."

Laugh the little giggle that he's always liked. Hear him wince.

"I can't do that for you Sher. I'm using my last wish to see you you know?" Reach out left hand towards them. Want to touch them, but can't.

Feel for pill. Flick it onto tongue.

"I said get away from the ledge or I'll come over there and get you". He's staring at Moran with his coldest stare. He's going to kill him, that's a given at this point.

"No! No, keep your eyes fixed on me! I can't do it anymore Sher" feel voice break for real. Think about my alternative- going back down into that cell and being tortured twice daily until I die? No. Not again.

"Do what?" slight anger in his voice now. He's never liked people touching me or looking at me the wrong way never mind what's happened here.

"They've done things to me that I don't even want to think about. I'm surprised I can stand really. You'll have deduced it all anyway". A growl escapes him. He has. He knows.

Good. Anger as well as hurt. This will help. It hurts to do, but it'll help.

Love is the most powerful motivator after all.

"I just can't Sherlock. I love you both, you know that right? I love you Sher. I love you John", see John begin to crumble.

"I love you, I love you, I love you"

Look at Moran.

"Just one final little push and you'll be gone" he says, raising a gun towards the doorway and firing just as it opens, cutting off a shout that could only be "Becca" before it's finished.

Ryan hits the ground hard, one single entry wound to his temple.

He knew I was planning something with my little pills, but not this. How could he?

"You really didn't think I'd find out about him did you? You're little friend on the inside" Moran throws his head back and laughs.

Look over at John. He's gaping at Ryan's body, then looking at me. He knows the feeling, losing a friend. Sherlock's eyes are darting everywhere trying to make sense of what's happening. It's time then.

Raise arms out to the side. Look at Moran.

Get quick glimpse of his confusion as he runs to grab me.

See Sherlock launch himself towards me, John right behind him.

Hear them both scream "NO!".

Hear John's gun fire and Moran's body hit the ground.

Tilt backwards.

Air all around me.

Bite pill.

_Sleep_.


	11. Epilogue

So, Final chapter. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as i have writing it, despite the emotional torture this has caused me.

* * *

221B Baker Street has been oddly quiet for the past eleven months. There hasn't been any gunshots, or explosions from the kitchen, not even Sherlock's usual "BORED!" echoing through the rooms.

It'd been eleven months that day since she'd gone and both occupants of the second floor flat were well aware of this.

They had watched after all. Saw the small body they both loved so much- worshiped even-covered in new cuts and scars, broken in so many new ways, tilt backwards, arms open like wings that couldn't catch her and fall.

Fall like Sherlock had, but both men knew that she wasn't coming back. She was gone.

Sherlock lies curled on the sofa, picking at a loose thread on her scarf.

John is in the kitchen making tea. He sets her mug out on the counter only to wince and put it back into the cupboard.

"John?" a broken voice says from behind him. He turns. Sherlock stands in his pajamas, hair wild, eyes red rimmed. His hands cling to the scarf so tightly his knuckles are white. One look was enough to know he was breaking. No one in the entire world could read Sherlock as well as John Watson.

Well, one other could, but not any more.

Taking his hand, John drags Sherlock over to the sofa, pulling him to his side. The detective places his head in the hollow between John's neck and shoulder- the same place she used to curl up in on him.

He thought about how well she fit there. How small she was in his arms inhaling the scent of vanilla and cigarettes that clung to her skin. When she was safe. When he could _keep_ her safe and hidden from everything.

Thought about what they'd done to her, how alone she'd been for that entire time...

John's arm tightens around his shoulders and tels him in a shaky voice, "I miss her too Sher".

John misses the way she'd make everything that bit brighter. Even on her bad days she'd always just sit and annoy Sherlock until she got a smile from him. If she were bored she'd hang out of the window sneaking cigarettes and drinking enough coffee to kill a fully grown man.

She was a mess. She was the most perfect thing John had ever seen and more brilliant than Sherlock and Mycroft put together. And he was sad, and angry because of what they'd done to her- what those mens actions had forced her to do.

Neither know how long they sit like that. They are lost in their minds thinking about that strange emptiness that constantly hovers over the flat now.

Even Gladstone looks at her chair and lets out a whine.

Cab stops. Pay Cabbie and get out. Look around at the street. Feel nervous energy in every part of my body. Mind racing.

I'm smiling though. More than I have in months. Surprised I haven't just deleted the action all together.

Raise hand and trace around the number on the door.

'221'.

Take deep breath. Raise hand to knock. Don't.

Raise hand again. Don't.

Huff out irritated breath and knock three times.

Feel so nervous I might puke.

Familiar footsteps descend the stair towards the door. Keys turn in lock and my stomach twist itself in knots.

The door opens and he's there. Pajamas rumpled, curls, the same as mine, sticking in every direction, and my old scarf clasped tightly between his hands.

Feel eyes sting and throat close up and he stares at me with wide eyes. He's unsure. Deducing if I'm real or just an apparition he's created.

Need to break the silence.

"Next time you try and take out an entire criminal organization single handedly, double check you've got them all please. Much less work for me".

Strangled noise comes out of his mouth as he gabs my hand and pulls me inside. Door closes and before I can even turn back to him he's picking me up and crushing me to his chest.

Wrap arms around him and hold tight. Don't speak because we don't need to. I'm back, and very much alive and he's forgiven me because of that fact.

Doesn't he know I'd never leave him?

Hear other foot steps on the stairs- prominent limp as he makes his way down.

"Sherlock who was a-" he stops mid-sentence when he sees us. Sherlock ignores him, ignores everything other than me in his arms.

Tilt head up from where it's pressed to Sherlock's neck. Look at John.

He's not angry. His eyes are wet. He heaves in a shaky breath and smiles at me.

Sherlock carries me up the stairs and sits down on the sofa. Move into my usual spot on his shoulder. Feel his arms wrap around me like a vice. Feel so safe.

I've missed this.

Sher clears his throat, "rhododendron and homeless network?"he asks. Knew he'd figure it out. Smile.

"Mostly, few other compounds to heighten it's effects". Arms tighten around me. He kisses my head.

"And the boy?" he asks carefully. Tense up. _Ryan_. The 'what if?'

I've thought of him. Visited his grave and told him the things I couldn't say in that cell. I apologised for taking something I had no right to before my 'death'. He died because he helped me.

I've had a hell of a lot of danger nights since then. I've woken up at his grave a few times too.

I picked the lock on his front door and took one of his t-shirts he wore when he visited my flat once. He'd left a little note on his desk addressed to me. He knew if he didn't come back that I'd break in- always ahead of me, thinking of ways to help me- and that note did help me. I never leave the house without it.

"you don't have to tell me" Sherlock says, voice muffled from where his mouths pressed to my hair. Nod into his chest.

Weight at the other side of the sofa. John.

Reach out my hand for his. He takes it and kisses each knuckle, each scar that's marred my skin.

Tried not to think about how much I've missed this. Block out all other input, focus only on them. My John and My Sherlock. Here, safe within my reach with no one watching and waiting.

Even Gladstone jumps up and kisses me.

"You'd think I'd be used to you lot faking deaths by now" laughs John. Laugh too. So does Sherlock.

Laugh until we're all crying.

Because we're safe and they're gone and those nights are far behind us.

* * *

So there, it's done.

I am, however, not intending to stop writing with Rebecca so i'm working on a series of one-shots and a Molly/Lestrade story that she'll likely be in.

Let me know what you think.


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